


Look

by Decepticonsensual



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Background Sam Vimes/Havelock Vetinari, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: Four moments in the lives of Lady Roberta Meserole and her nephew.





	Look

**Author's Note:**

> A Discworld fic of mine from almost thirteen years ago, which I recently rediscovered and wanted to share with you. Please note that this is going to make a lot more sense if you've read Night Watch. (My take on Havelock's relationship with his father, and on his parents' deaths, is a little different here than it is in "Funeral Games".)

“Look at me.”

Madam slid carefully manicured fingertips under the child’s chin.  “Look at your Auntie Bobbi, darling?”

Liquid blue eyes lifted slowly to hers.

“Isn’t he a handsome lad?”  Her brother hefted the skinny toddler, who never uttered a whimper of protest but gave his aunt a rueful glance over his father’s shoulder.

“Beautiful, I’d say,” Madam replied.

 

***

  
  
“Look at me.”

Nine-year-old Havelock set his satchel down in the middle of the empty floor.  Books, mainly; leather-bound, terribly grown-up books, and a child’s change of clothes.  Madam would send for the rest of his things, but the main objective had been to get the boy away, away from the house full of forbidding relations and the remnants of the double funeral.

When the boy had tilted his head up to meet her eyes, Madam said, “You’ll start school in the autumn, as your father would have wanted.”  Brushing a lock of soft black hair out of his eyes, she continued, “You’ll always be safe here in my house, Havelock.”

He smiled at her, gently, his gaze full of pitying disbelief.

 

***

  
  
“Look at me!”

He disobeyed, pushing past her into the darkened hallway.  Madam turned to reprimand him, and paused; she’d never seen Havelock behave this way before.  In the middle of the corridor he stood, taut as a tripwire, fighting for breath; the supple grey clothes, so adept at concealing him, were torn, and there was something almost feral in the set of his trembling shoulders.  Rust-coloured streaks of blood were smeared across his skin.  One hand clutched a scraggly sprig of lilac.

“Keel?”  Madam asked, her voice choked.

“Dead,” Havelock replied without turning.

 

***

  
  
“Look at me.”

It was not done to order the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, nor was it done to reach up and run a deft, fluttering hand over his temple, where the black hair was just turning to silver.  Havelock didn’t say anything to her, however; instead, he tipped his head to one side and smiled.

“This man Vimes,” Madam whispered.  “You love him, don’t you?”

“That’s hardly relevant, but yes.”

Madam’s hand, the skin like crinkled paper now, but the fingers as delicate as ever, cupped his chin.  “There is such a thing, Havelock, as wanton self-sacrifice.”

“It would do the city no good for me to… pursue its Commander of the Watch.”

“It would do it no harm.”

She could tell from the way the corners of his lips curved that she’d lost, but it was worth the effort at least.

“Still so beautiful, my boy,” she murmured, smiling, and kissed his cheek. “You should make use of it.”

“As are you, Madam,” he whispered back.


End file.
